Your bumper sticker and window decal caught my eye and I'd like to congratulate you on your early warning system. Because you had the foresight to post large, easy to read signage on your vehicle, everyone within a 200 foot radius can a) keep their daughters, nieces, cousins, friends and female pets away from you, b) stare at you in shock and dismay, and c) have no doubt whatsoever about your status as Really Big Douchebag.
I sincerely hope that this is your attempt to avoid procreation. I wish you only the best of luck at bringing your gene pool to a complete stop.
Hosanna, the cat my alleged daughter brought home a few months ago, has quickly become a snuggly part of the family. She's sweet and cuddly and she sure does love to sleep. Kind of like my big sister, but with slightly more fur.
She's getting big and growing up, so I was just starting to think about taking her to the vet to get her parts fixed/removed/cauterized/shut down when my alleged daughter came to me with a seriously concerned look on her face.
"Mom. I think Hosanna's got balls."
"No way. Are you sure?" I dare ANY ONE OF YOU to have a quicker comeback upon encountering unexpected testicles. There's NEVER a good time for surprise balls.
"Yeah, Mom. I know what balls look like."
Uh. That's not something you want to hear from your teenage daughter. But at that moment, I had more important things to deal with. I grabbed the cat and flipped it over and sure enough. Balls. BALLS, man!
The alleged daughter just crossed her arms and said, "See? I told you she's got balls."
What could I say? My daughter knows balls when she sees them.
Regardless of your political affiliation, regardless of your bi or hetro partisanship, this is one funny picture. I think it's because POTUS sounds like a body part. And there's cussing. That's always good times.
For quite some time, something's been chafing away at my brains, causing frontal lobe rash and leakage in my medulla oblongata. I can't wrap my mind around it, like the when you see a supermodel without her makeup for the first time and you Just. Go. Blank.
I checked the mail yesterday and found an envelope. "Federal Trade Commission", said the upper left hand corner. "MR. STEVE MACK", said the address.
I opened it, thinking, "Oh, great. Steven's getting sued by the Federal Trade Commission for unlawful flatulence during the Super Bowl or something."
Inside, I found a check for $17.89, and a letter. This is what it said:
The Federal Trade Commission (FTC), the nation's consumer protection agency, filed a lawsuit against Telebrands Corporation for false advertising. Telebrands falsely claimed its Ab Force belt would cause weight loss and create well-defined abdominal muscles.
The settlement requires Telebrands to give money back to people who bought the Ab Force. According to our records, you bought the Ab Force from Telebrands. The enclosed check is your share of this money. This check is being sent to you by a Settlement Administrator hired by the FTC.
Sincerely, Settlement Administrator
For those of you who don't remember, or who have a life and don't spend it watching the Infomercial Channel, this is the Ab Force:
*Note: the only way my husband's abdomen resembles this abdomen is that they both have a belly button. That's it.
Someone somewhere deep in the bowels of the federal government has my husband's name on a list with a notation next to it that is shameful on so many different levels: Mr. Steve Mack (bought Ab Force). God. I hope that list isn't available under the Freedom of Information Act.
What I love is that the letter makes sure to mention not once, but TWICE the fact that my husband actually bought the Ab Force, proof that the government REALLY DOES have a sense of humor.